


An Old Sky God's Weakness

by groovyhedgehog (GroovyHedgehog)



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Eating Disorders, Headcanon, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:45:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GroovyHedgehog/pseuds/groovyhedgehog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin is drunk and Douglas takes him home, quickly finding out that sleeping Martin is hard to resist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Downhill From Here

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Headcanon. My friend, who typically does Martin in our RPGs, decided that Martin has an eating disorder and I decided to go along with it.

“Oof!”

Douglas dumped Martin into the thick bedding with a loud grunt. Martin’s hand, which seemed childishly clutched around Douglas’ shirt, gripped tighter as their bodies separated and inevitably jerked Douglas along. Although a bit surprised, Douglas threw out his arms to buffer his fall, supporting himself with hands placed strategically on each side of Martin’s shoulders, just barely saving himself from crushing the captain’s leaner body. He puffed out a breath of relief and glanced downward, sharp eyes studying the intoxicated captain’s flushed face and sleeping form.

Martin was pissed and completely out for the night. He’d be quite flustered in the morning when he found out that Douglas had not, in fact, taken him to his own little attic home, but instead to Douglas’ place. And Douglas didn’t exactly care. He knew where Martin lived and he did not approve. He also did not approve of the way his own flat was more than big enough for two--three, in fact, because he had hoped that a child might come along at some point--and it was so endless and dark without Helena to chase away the emptiness. Recently, between flights, he’d avoided even coming back to his house at all. Instead, he’d wind up at some bar, fighting the inane desperation for something alcoholic--a desperation he thought he’d nipped in the bud nearly nine years ago.

And god, did he want to drink. Who wouldn’t, after hearing their wife was leaving them for someone more fit, younger, pleasing to the eye? Douglas felt gnawing at his stomach and he watched Martin’s drunken sleep. Now _Martin_ was young, handsome, and though he was a bit too skinny for his own good, Douglas couldn’t help but wonder what his lips would taste like, doused in alcohol as they were. He leaned close, breathing in the smell of whiskey and vodka and whatever else Douglas had forced on the boy earlier. It smelled divine. Martin’s lips looked tempting enough without smelling that way. A fleeting thought of _since when did I find Martin this attractive?_ If he was being honest with himself, Douglas would recall meeting Martin for the first time and remembering the days before he’d settled down with his first wife. The days at university, at medical school, where he’d woken up in the bed of many doctors-in-training (who were, in fact, very _male_ ) after long, hard nights of partying.

But god Martin really was a gorgeous man. There was something rather massive stuffed up his ass— _that’s not a healthy mental image_ —but in the end, Douglas found him quite invaluable as a friend and knew that he enjoyed making the captain blush a good deal too much for him to seriously deny his attraction to the boy. Before Helena revealed her affair to Douglas, he’d always repressed the little whispers in the back of his mind, little flashes of Martin that beckoned him to follow into forbidden places. Douglas loved Helena, he really did, and he wanted to make their marriage work, but this odd attraction to Martin was something else entirely.

Douglas leaned a little closer. “You idiot,” he whispered, letting his lips stroke the curve of Martin’s ear.

He didn’t feel guilty at all, for the moment, either. Helena hadn’t filed for divorce yet, but they were separated, and Douglas _knew_ what was going to follow. He tried to be the Sky God that he boasted to be, but this separation--soon to be his third divorce--was casting doubts in his mind and stripping his confidence away, leaving a vulnerable man he hadn’t been aware existed until now. This vulnerability craved companionship; he’d always been happiest when surrounded by people he cared about, and recently that list had amounted to absolutely nothing, and now here was Martin, so close he could hold him there forever.

Deft fingers slowly unbuttoned Martin’s shirt and he refused to think about what he was doing. This was wrong, so wrong, but god Martin was there in his bed... Gently, Douglas pushed the shirt away, just enough to run his fingers over Martin’s pale skin. He could feel the boy’s bones, see the shadows cast by Martin’s emaciated body. Captain Crieff was a handsome man, but the obvious signs of malnutrition were everywhere, and Douglas felt very sick. Martin might think he was hiding everything, but Douglas’ observation skills were sharp; he could see the way Martin turned down food, how he ran to the bathroom when food was forced on him, and Douglas already knew that the boy barely had enough money to keep a roof over his head, however full of holes it might be, nonetheless buy himself a proper meal.

“What am I going to do with you?” Douglas murmured, fighting a wry smile from his lips. “You’re such a bloody mess.” He sighed and smelled the alcohol on Martin’s breath again. God it was tempting.

 _He tastes divine._ Douglas wasn’t entirely sure when his lips had found Martin’s, but there they were, softly grazing, gently parted, his tongue tasting where it could. Whisky, vodka, and a bit of bourbon, mingling with something sweet and salty, something that was undeniably _Martin_. Douglas groaned and forced himself away. No, no, no. He wasn’t going to take advantage. Douglas Richardson might boast of his exploits, but he wasn’t that cruel in actuality. And especially not with someone he cared about--co-pilot, comrade, friend. Besides, if he couldn’t even keep his third wife, who supposedly _adored_ him, then what was to say that this man, as ridiculous as he was most of the time, would want _Douglas_ in all of his overly sarcastic, graying, slightly overweight—although Douglas _was_ very fit for his age, if he did say so himself—and middle aged glory? Martin could do much better, if he wasn’t always flying for MJN or hauling furniture around for elderly women.

Guilt finally _did_ creep into Douglas’ thoughts and he sighed, pulled away, sat down on the edge of the bed. _Damn it, Martin. Damn you, coming and stealing my captainship, weaseling your way into my mind with your arrogance and childish dreams._ And that light in Martin’s eyes. That boyish gleam, that playful innocence that just wanted to be something to someone. Douglas blinked. He didn’t just feel a tear pushing its way out. He didn’t. He blinked until he was sure there was nothing there and then rolled over into the blankets beside Martin and kicked off his shoes.

“Good night, Captain,” his deep voice pierced the darkness and surely, surely curled its way into Martin’s dreams.


	2. Here We Go Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking Martin home is starting to become a habit and Douglas is having a very hard time stopping himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to let everyone know, I don't usually write Martin. My friend, currently known as Patchy the Red (moriarty-will-regenerate.tumblr.com) usually plays the Martin to my Douglas. She's pretty much what has inspired the headcanon for Martin in this section and I feel a bit odd writing him... but I'm going to try, and I wanted to give her credit for being awesome and inspiring this. :3
> 
> I know this chapter is short, bear with me. More to come.
> 
> Also, thanks guys for all of your support! Seriously. I don't even know what to say. You give me all the warm fuzzies and I really don't even deserve them. These chapters are for everyone who requested them because you're all brilliant.

“Hmmph.”

Martin groaned as his body hit the generous padding on Douglas’ king-sized bed. Douglas, as usual on nights like this one, had been jerked down alongside of Martin, because Martin’s hand was very _clingy_ when its owner was fairly intoxicated. It was one of the many nuances Douglas was becoming familiar with during their drunken escapades. Or rather, Martin’s drunken and Douglas’ very sober but still very enjoyable escapes.

The only real problem was… well, all right, everything was a problem. Martin was becoming increasingly alcoholic, skinnier by the day, and Douglas was always there to haul the boy back to Douglas’ enormously empty house. It was, actually, becoming quite a habit that Douglas really didn’t want to get rid of. Martin always woke the next day hung over and hopping mad, but he always assumed Douglas was just messing with him or too lazy to take him back to his attic abode. Douglas didn’t mind this assumption; it kept his reputation in tact and allowed for countless nights of watching Martin sleep without casting any real suspicion on his motive.

“Douglas,” Martin mumbled through his drunken stupor, so close to passing out entirely. Douglas merely smirked and wrapped a ginger curl around his finger, curious as always how Martin might react, however wasted he was. The only response was a soft mewl, another _Douglas_ drifting lazily on Martin’s gentle lips.

This was one such shade of Martin that Douglas had come to know—his name, which always slipped out during Martin’s half-sleeping drunkenness or even during his intoxicated dreams. And god, was it _beautiful_ the way Martin’s lips parted to let the name push through, wrapped gingerly around the “l” and then eased back together. Sometimes Martin would whisper the name like a secret, a promise between lovers, sometimes he’d whine it like a rebuttal to being teased, sometimes he gasp it, clutch to it like it was the only thing holding his head above water, the only thing lighting up a dark, strange place, and sometimes… _oh,_ sometimes, he’d _moan_ it, red-faced, a breathy seduction that Douglas could never resist.

On those nights, Douglas found himself powerless to stop his lips from finding Martin’s, desperate to draw out the name over and over. He was proud of himself for the most part—most nights, Douglas was quite satisfied to just watch and listen—but there was something about the way Martin’s Adam’s apple dragged up and down his slender neck, the way those cupid-bow lips hung open for the occasional swipe of tongue, the way steam-laden dreams showed hot on his cheeks and ears and his chest when Douglas stole his shirt. No, the boy _begged_ for it in his sleep and Douglas couldn’t, for the life of him, refuse to accommodate.

“Martin,” Douglas whispered, nuzzling his voice into the side of Martin’s neck. “Go to sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Mmmkay,” Martin mumbled his reply, body curling against Douglas. “Don’t lose my hat. Don’t. Captain’s hat. Need it. I’m the captain.”

Douglas plucked Martin’s hat from between their bodies—somehow it’d wound up squished between them—and stretched his arm over, setting it on the night stand with a laugh. Martin would always be Martin. As ridiculous as it was, Douglas loved it.

“Of course, my captain,” Douglas teased into Martin’s ear, though Martin’s gentle snoring told him that his captain was indeed no longer with him.


	3. Gay Bar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh. I'm not sure what happened here. Characters do what they want sometimes. Most times. Yeah. Sorry for the ... randomness. What is this. I don't know. I'm sorry.

The first night Martin moaned Douglas’ name in his sleep was, coincidentally, the night that they ended up in a gay bar in Belize. Cliché, Douglas noted, but not entirely unwelcome. For some reason, Martin hadn’t eaten a thing from the cheese tray during their flight and usually that was the _only_ thing he ate, so Douglas decided that getting Martin drunk and then stuffing him was a brilliant idea. Only, after Douglas got him drunk off of martinis at the hotel bar, they somehow ended up at _Blue Bastion._ In Douglas’ defense, he really hadn’t realized it was a gay bar. It was an honest mistake, because there was an over-priced, four-star restaurant by the same name somewhere in town and he’d wanted to buy Martin a nice meal.

So when Martin groaned “Douglas!” and flushed down to his toes and tried to leave, Douglas really _did_ mean his reply of, “Really Martin, how was I to know there was a gay bar with the exact same name?”

They didn’t stay for very long. In fact, they would have left immediately if it hadn’t been for that handsome Columbian fellow with a half-unbuttoned shirt that whisked Martin off to dance. Douglas only caught flashes of them under the strobe lights—the Columbian’s hand on Martin’s hips, a shift closer, dancing _too_ close, at least for Douglas' tastes. Douglas stood there for a moment in shock, fighting off the swell of bile in his stomach.

 _Get it together, Douglas. He’s just a bronzed, South American god, whoring himself out with that stupid shirt half open. You’re a bloody Sky God. You’ve got something over him. You fly aeroplanes and Martin loves aeroplanes._

 _God,_ he added. Listen to yourself, _Douglas. Listen. You’re trying to—_

And that was it. The Columbian’s hips started grinding against Martin’s and Douglas swore he saw a look of horror flash across Martin’s face. If there _wasn’t_ a look of horror, he could just blame it on the strobe lights, because _fuck it all_ that Columbian was going down. In what seemed like one swift motion, he grabbed the bugger by the throat and shoved him out of the crowd, then pinned him against the wall with a fist to his face. Douglas’ knuckles screamed in pain but he didn’t care. All he needed to feel satisfied was the blood trickling from the Columbian’s nose and the sudden Spanish swearing. He knew bouncers would be there soon, so he grabbed Martin’s hand and ducked into the crowd, slipping outside into the cool Belize night air.

 _“Really,_ Martin, even you can do better than drug-dealing man-whores,” Douglas almost hissed through the dripping sarcasm. He didn’t care if he was being racist. He didn’t care. He wanted Martin far away from that place.

When they returned to their hotel room—which was, by the way, only one room thanks to Carolyn’s ever constant money-saving techniques—they collapsed on the bed, laughed the whole matter off with a bottle of whiskey Douglas had conned off of some poor bloke earlier, and played a drunken game of Candy Names That Could Be Porn Stars.

When Martin was finally wasted enough to begin succumbing to sleep’s call and curled up in the sheets with a lazy yawn, Douglas reclined beside him, stretched nonchalantly over the sheets. The room fell into a comfortable silence and Douglas glanced to Martin, who was already drifting off. It took him a moment before he could formulate the words, but when he finally did he almost regretted it.

“Martin, do you... _enjoy_ puking your guts out and the constant feeling of starvation?”

“Huh?” Martin mumbled, hardly roused from his half-sleep. “Douglas, you’re… you’re reallyreally _really_ mad sometimes… Most times... a nutter.”

 _“Am_ I?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I believe this would be a time that I am _not,_ as you so eloquently put it, ‘really, reallyreally _really_ mad.’”

“Mm, if you say so…”

“Martin, do you think that you’re… _fat?”_

Almost immediately, compliments of the half a whiskey bottle Martin topped off alone, he replied with a tiny, sigh of a _yes_ that nearly shattered Douglas’ heart. There wasn’t any further conversation. Only soft, drunken snoring coming from Martin’s end of the bed. Douglas knew, without a doubt, that Martin would have never been so easily pried open sober and he felt bad for dousing the boy in booze, he really did—okay, or maybe he _didn’t_ —but part of him wanted nothing more than to find that place deep inside of Martin, that broken piece hidden underneath layers of captain’s attire, and once and for all make it _whole_ again.

And then, five minutes later, most probably due to the adrenaline rush of the gay bar incident, the giddy laughter, and the influence of whiskey to dreams, Martin shifted and moaned softly into his pillow, _Douglas._


End file.
